


Legato

by redroseinsanity



Series: Hold your breath, count to ten [10]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Deaf! Iwaizumi, I hope y'all like the cake I baked with this, Light Angst, M/M, Small fluff, This sounds like a recipe, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redroseinsanity/pseuds/redroseinsanity
Summary: The world is silent for Hajime and he's fine with that, doesn't expect more.Until he meets Oikawa and suddenly, helplessly, hopelessly, he finds that he does. He wants a great deal more.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: Hold your breath, count to ten [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980692
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46
Collections: Haikyuu Horror Week





	Legato

**Author's Note:**

> For Haikyuu Horror Week 2020!
> 
> This is my first time writing horror so I’m excited but also apologetic if this is not on par with your expectations. In that vein, I’m not sure if I’m tagging this as well as I should be, so if at any point you feel like you want to nope out, please do!
> 
> I have no intention of offending anyone but if you feel like I should change something about the way I express Hajime being deaf so as to avoid hurting anyone, please let me know! You can comment or message me on tumblr!

_Legato: A musical term for connected, or joined, notes. That means there is no perceivable silence between two notes played one after another._

**Day 10:**

**a single flickering light / a noise from far away that keeps getting louder / the view from the top /all i wanna be is unforgettable / out of breath / the fight of your life**

The world is silent for Hajime, it has been for a long time. 

He doesn’t mind it much, it’s peaceful even, to live insulated from the rest of the universe. His hut is a little further away from the town centre but he likes it that way, away from awkward encounters and pitying stares, nearer to the nightsong of the forest that he cannot hear and to the stars that he imagines play a melody for those asleep. 

Hajime’s days have a sort of consistency to them; although he does a variety of jobs, they tend to fall into a pattern that delineate his days. The way the small mouths of lambs open and close soundlessly, how sparks fly when his hammer hits the metal and the therapeutic swing of his axe, cleaving wood smoothly into half. 

The sunlight is scorching, even through Hajime’s closed lids, staining his vision a brilliant red. He opens his eyes and surveys his surroundings, taking in the sprawling fields, the way the shadows from the trees dance with the breeze. 

With a firm but steady hand, he guides the sheep back into the pen as he bows to the mistress. She smiles and her lips form the words he has come to learn is ‘thank you’. He mumbles it back, for after years and years, he’s not even sure if he’s saying it right anymore. 

He lives in the peripheries of other people’s lives — Hajime the odd job man. He’s made himself useful, in the fields as a shepherd, apprenticing with the blacksmith, learning purely by watching demonstrations and burning his fingers too many times, spending his free time chopping wood and ensuring the elderly and widowed have enough to stay warm in the winter. 

It’s a quiet, uneventful life, but Hajime is fine with it, finds meaning in it. There is solace in the contentment of sheep grazing and joy in creating in the smith, there is warmth in the grateful smiles and portions of food given in exchange for the bundles of wood he delivers. 

The world is silent for Hajime until he’s chopping wood and clear as a bell, a voice right next to his ear goes: “Hello.”

He drops the axe, narrowly missing his toes and spins, heart in his mouth and his mind crowding with disbelief. It’s been so long, it’s been _so long_ that surely he must have mistaken it, surely it must be in his head. 

But a few paces away stands a man who is the most stunning creature Hajime has ever seen, wide doe eyes, immaculate jawline and handsomely broad shoulders that fill out a shirt that is probably very expensive judging by the rich material.

Stunning and yet, something about him doesn't quite sit right with Hajime in a way that he can't put a finger on.

But it doesn't matter because the gorgeous man opens his mouth to speak and Hajime _hears_ him. 

“I don’t suppose you know what day it is,” He asks, his voice crisp as a freshly plucked apple, Hajime has gone completely still, his mind fumbling to comprehend, “Or where this is, for that matter.”

When Hajime makes no answer, the man blinks those sinfully dark lashes and tilts his head, waving slightly at Hajime with calloused, elegant hands. 

“I could have sworn you looked right at me,” He mutters as a slight frown creases his brow, “Did I do this right? Yahoo~ Can you see me?”

Without thinking, Hajime catches that hand mid-air and now both freeze—Hajime when he sees the ring on the fourth finger with a familiar signet, and the man, the moment Hajime’s skin meets his own. 

“You’re not supposed to be able to touch me,” He says faintly, going slightly pale, fingers flexing as though to test the solidity of Hajime’s hand. 

“I’m not supposed to be able to hear you either,” Hajime rasps, his voice croaky with disuse and the words horribly garbled because he’s spent so long lip-reading that he doesn’t remember what the words sound like anymore. 

This time, the man frowns for real, tilting his head slightly and causing a lock of chestnut to fall across his forehead. 

“What do you mean?” He questions, but Hajime just shakes his head and focuses on enunciating the way he used to when he was nine. 

“I’ll tell you if you tell me, why aren’t I supposed to be able to touch you? Who are you? Where did you get this ring?” He demands, voice getting surer with each word that spills out. 

A coy smile that hides everything behind brown eyes and the curve of pink lips has Hajime wishing he hadn’t let go of his axe. 

“My name is Oikawa, and you are?” He pauses politely, as though introducing himself at a ball or banquet and not… Hajime scrunches up his face and sifts through his memories before the name finally makes a match. 

In one smooth move, his axe is back in his hands and the gleaming steel blade is inches away from the pale column of Oikawa’s neck.

“You’re the king,” He whispers, watching Oikawa’s face closely, “You were, anyway. Didn’t they execute you last week?”

“Pfft, death is for the weak,” Oikawa scoffs, those bright brown eyes igniting in a way that makes Hajime’s heartbeat speed up in what is probably a fight or flight reaction as Oikawa continues calmly, as though Hajime isn’t holding a weapon right where his head should have been chopped off, “I anticipated those spineless cowards would do that so I took some measures of my own.”

Oikawa’s smile is beatific as he presses a single finger against the sharpened steel and pushes, his entire hand going straight through the metal and the wood. Hajime nearly drops the axe for the second time. 

“How did you-,” He snatches Oikawa’s hand up and inspects it. It feels real, looks real, with slender fingers and whitish scars scattered across the palm. 

“I’m not physically here anymore,” Oikawa says at last, his smile turning rueful although his eyes carry a weight that Hajime suddenly feels in his chest, “Which is why you technically shouldn’t be able to touch me either.”

That should terrify Hajime, for it makes sense now, why Oikawa feels just a little off. Hajime looks closely and notices that Oikawa's pearly skin is just a tad too translucent to be normal. But he can't really bring himself to be frightened, not when Oikawa seems so _real_ , not with the tenor of his voice like drizzled honey after an eternity of silence.

“I’m deaf,” Hajime murmurs, and the words solidify it, what has been turning over and over in his head since Oikawa first spoke, and now, it’s Oikawa’s turn to look at Hajime with surprise, “You’re the first thing I’ve heard in ten years.”

He's expecting discomfort to flash across those finely carved features or sympathy to fill those eyes. Instead, Oikawa hums and begins muttering to himself, one finger tapping his chin and various words like 'probability' and 'wrong blood' catching in the wind. 

"There was probably a variable in the spell I used that resulted in this, I'm not sure if you are the exception or if I am," Oikawa bites his lip and pokes his stomach and arm, as if to check himself. It's a movement so child-like that for ten seconds, Hajime forgets who Oikawa is supposed to be. 

But while he cannot hear the gossip, it's impossible to ignore what the notices around town have been proclaiming about the demon king whose nefarious powers threaten the whole land. 

Oikawa snorts when he tells him as much and waves a hand lazily, perching himself on the tree stump Hajime was using to cut wood. 

"They fear what they do not know, obviously because I'm messing with some spells I'm evil," He sighs, running a hand through glossy brown waves of hair. 

“What do you want?” Hajime asks, because he's deaf not naive and he knows there is more to Oikawa than he is letting on. 

“Revenge, of course,” Oikawa drawls, his tongue caressing each syllable like he’s already savouring it. But something about it comes off wrong, maybe it’s the empty ring of it, or the slightly hollow, vacant look in Oikawa’s eyes as he says it, as though he’s reciting lines from a script instead of actually answering. 

But Oikawa is a good actor, for his lips curl up menacingly and his eyes narrow appropriately. After all, Hajime hasn’t been listening to people talk so what would he know about empty words and uncertain tones?

"And you're going to get that… How?" He raises a skeptical eyebrow, the shape of words coming more and more smoothly as he goes, "Considering you can't actually touch anything."

"I'll think of something," Oikawa replies with a slightly manic glint in his eye, "I always do."

Then he makes a startled little turn, as though just remembering that Hajime is still there, axe uselessly dangling at his side and mind whirling from the way the past twenty minutes have been more eventful than his entire life so far. 

"And you are?" Oikawa prompts again and Hajime jerks, folds into a polite bow out of habit and gives his name. 

"Ah, well then, this weak spirit is in your care, Iwa chan!" Oikawa chirps and Hajime almost wishes he couldn't hear again so that he doesn't have to listen to Oikawa mangle his name. 

Sunrises turn to sunsets, the moon cycles through her phases and Hajime slowly gets used to Oikawa's voice filling the void of his quiet existence. 

It's strange, to wake up and have Oikawa cheerily greet him, to go out into the fields and have Oikawa chattering after him the whole way, to be sweating in the smith and have Oikawa curiously reach out a finger to touch a bicep before making a mischievous remark. 

And he finds that he likes it, the warm tones that Oikawa's voice takes when he's talking about his childhood or recounting an experiment, the sharpness of his voice when they argue, the way he hums late in the evenings when he thinks Hajime is already deep in slumber.

And Hajime thinks that the lullaby the stars play for those asleep must sound something like that, like the soft, aimless tune that comes to his left that is full of melancholy and longing. 

The world is readjusted, filtered through the biting commentary in his ear and coloured by the sound of Oikawa’s laughter, he’s the exception to Hajime’s deafness, all else is muffled but him and Hajime finds that he doesn’t mind at all. 

It's been weeks, almost a month, when Oikawa sits up from where he's lounging on Hajime's bed, the low lamplight shadowing across his features. 

"I need a sword," He declares abruptly, "Make one for me, Iwa chan?"

Hajime looks up from his book and blinks before slowly marking the page and setting it down. He's already at the small table so he pulls out some spare parchment and charcoal, looks up expectantly at Oikawa. 

Oikawa looks mildly stunned that it was that easy but he quickly begins describing it, until a rough sketch of a simple but deadly double edged sword sits on the paper. 

"Like this?" He asks and Oikawa comes round to peer at it. He leans in, bringing a wave of unnatural coolness with him and Hajime fights the urge to shiver. 

Oikawa seems normal enough, but Hajime sees the way his eyes go completely obsidian, just two black marbles, has seen the way he flickers in and out of shape and form as though fighting to stay on this plane of existence, has seen the tiny veins that creep up his neck leaving hairline cracks on his porcelain skin. 

Even now, Hajime isn't at all frightened of Oikawa, he's only afraid that once Oikawa's time here is up, he'll be left in the all-consuming silence of his solitude once more. It's a horrible screaming emptiness that he wasn't aware of until Oikawa came and erased it with his bickering and his banter, his opinions and his late night humming. 

"Not really, can you add more here, this should be-" Oikawa cuts himself off halfway and reaches for Hajime's hand instead, opting to press cool skin against Hajime's warmth and guide him in making the edits. 

Hajime can feel the roughness of Oikawa's palms, the signs that despite all his whining, he's not the useless royal that others have painted him as. When he chances a quick glance up, Oikawa's face is completely serious, the planes of his face absurdly handsome like this. 

It is like this, with Hajime so enchanted by this side of the demon king and said king so preoccupied with the details of his sword, that it happens. 

The strangest sensation permeates Hajime's hand, it feels like plunging it into ice water, resulting in a kind of numbness. He looks down and yelps because Oikawa's hand, the one that had been covering Hajime's has sunk straight into Hajime's hand, that pale wrist now ending where Hajime's wrist begins. 

And the most eerie is that Hajime's hand is still moving, despite him not willing it to, sketching out a portion of the hilt before Oikawa realises what has happened. 

Hajime watched in horror as his thumb twitches and he doesn't feel it so much as he sees it, pinpricks of sheer panic cover his body as he shakes his arm and everything from wrist upwards moves, but his hand remains lifeless, flopping like a dead fish only to move when Oikawa stretches his fingers. 

"Get out," Hajime is gasping, the mounting distress of not being in control over his body making him dizzy, "Get out, _get out_."

With a ghastly sucking quality, he feels Oikawa peel away with such force that he lands on the other side of the room, eyes wide and just as bewildered. 

He's panting, cold sweat trickling down the side of his face and dripping off his chin to land on the edge of the parchment. 

"Don't you ever," He starts, a shaking finger pointed directly at Oikawa's drawn face, "Ever do that again."

He barely waits for Oikawa to nod before he storms out and sits in the meditative absolute silence until he cools down. He knows Oikawa had been just as blindsided as him, judging by the face that he had learned to read so well. But the abject terror had seized him and overran into anger. 

They do not speak of it again. 

Months pass, Hajime forges a sword that Oikawa cannot lift and does not question it while Oikawa spends his days trying to touch anything that isn't Hajime only to fail spectacularly. 

And Hajime watches as the pale lilac veins that spider across Oikawa's neck deepen into a dark purple web, segmenting his skin and inching up his jaw. He notices it on the backs of his hands as well, the way Oikawa threatens to crack apart, held together by pure willpower and the drive for revenge as so proclaimed. 

With Oikawa, Hajime has not only learnt to curl his tongue over unfamiliar sounds, but the tones he'd forgotten how to project come easy when scolding Oikawa or joking with him, when trying to avoid sensitive topics or probing him for information. 

He wonders if he will remember what his own voice sounds like when Oikawa is gone, but he despairs that he will forget what Oikawa's voice sounds like when he leaves. 

When the spires of the purple veins decorate Oikawa's high cheekbones, Hajime wakes up to find him staring at the moon, the luminescence making him seem paler than ever, as though the moonshine may just absorb him and carry him away with the night when the sun rises. 

It causes a cold hand to grip Hajime's heart, a stab of brief fear that diffuses throughout his body as he realizes that he's not so much afraid of the lack of sound when Oikawa leaves, but the lack of Oikawa's voice when he does go. 

"It was a vaccine," Oikawa whispers, still facing the moon, "The spell I was working on when they discovered me. I wanted a vaccine for the pox, a magical mark you could imprint and that would ward off the sickness. My notes should still be there, I just need to get it to someone I know can finish my work."

Hajime has never known anyone like this, has never charted their expressions and memorized their pitches, has never learned somebody's soul so thoroughly that he can see through them, all their facades and dissembling. 

And now that he knows Oikawa, he can discern the hopelessness in his voice, which is when he understands that Oikawa has no options left. That Oikawa knows his time is running out, his form wavers more each day, and still, there is no plan. 

"All I wanted was to be unforgettable," Oikawa says quietly, but he is the only thing Hajime hears, the only thing he can hear, "A king who created something so great that his entire kingdom rose with him, until we were the greatest, until no one could surpass us because the peak was where we were."

That night, Hajime does not sleep at all. 

Things come to an ultimatum when Oikawa begins to fall apart, as though he simply cannot hold himself together any longer. 

He comes apart in shards that Hajime desperately tries to press back into place only for it to disintegrate in his fingers, leaving a pulsing violet light that shines from the gap in Oikawa's skin. 

"None of the spells I've tried are working," Oikawa mumbles, resigned and bitter, "I thought I would be closer to the netherworld this way, stronger, but all I am is a shade."

Hajime, whose heart had been shattering in tandem with Oikawa, looks up, hands still on the reassuring solidity of Oikawa. 

"You need a knight," He tells Oikawa, who scoffs a little and slumps, afternoon sun beating down around him. 

"Sure, if you can find one who wouldn't run screaming for help or who wouldn't turn against me in a heartbeat for material rewards," Oikawa sighs, "I can't pick some random nobody out of a line. It's dangerous for them and I'll need to train them as well."

The answer sits within Hajime, like a rock warming in the sun, smoothened by sleepless nights of considering and backpedalling and refusing and latching on to it again. It's there, granite weathered by the storms of his own desires and fears, and all he has to do is reach out for it. 

"Then you need a body," He says, sure and steady, smoothened and solid. 

He knows by the way Oikawa flicks his gaze onto him, by the irrepressable look of sheer horror that dawns on that lovely face, that Oikawa knows exactly what he's talking about. He may have learned Oikawa thoroughly, but so has Oikawa and Hajime is certain he cannot hide anything, he does not want to any longer. 

"No," Oikawa states so vehemently that his form actually disappears for a beat before gaining shape again, "Absolutely not."

When Hajime doesn't respond, Oikawa begins to panic and it's silly, how he seems more distressed by this than not getting his revenge or finishing his vaccine or whatever it is he truly wanted to do. Hajime doesn't budge, refuses to let his eyes leave Oikawa's. 

"Iwa chan, no," Oikawa's eyes are filling with darkness again, black erasing white, the way it happens when he can't control his emotions and subsequently, his power, "You can't, I don't even know if it will work, I could- I could kill you."

"I want to try," Hajime keeps his voice calm, soothing even, like trying to corral a wild creature, even as he advances

"You didn't even like it when it happened last time," Oikawa practically shrieks, backtracking away from Hajime in a gliding motion, "It will be worse, Hajime, please."

At the sound of his name, Hajime stops in his tracks. Another fragment of Oikawa's fading physical figure flutters in the wind before tearing off and being carried away by the breeze. Hajime feels his face change as he watches, he hates being so vulnerable but he can't disguise the abject despair, the acute pain that only intensifies as he watches Oikawa fall to pieces in front of him. 

"Nothing can be worse than this," He utters hoarsely, Oikawa's eyes snap up to his face, watching him close his eyes with a grimace before opening them again to fix Oikawa with a look, "Nothing can be worse than letting you to turn to dust and knowing I could have done something."

"Please," He stretches out a hand. 

Mutely, Oikawa shakes his head, but as Hajime draws nearer, he stays put. Until Hajime is just a step away, palm facing up and reaching for him, hazel eyes beseeching. 

"You already have the knowledge, the sword, the skills, you just need me," Hajime breathes and he can't even hear himself but he knows Oikawa can. 

"Is Iwa chan inviting me to take advantage of his muscles?" Oikawa taunts, but it's weak and they know it, both of them smile faintly, helplessly. 

"Listen, Oikawa," Hajime draws a deep breath, "I'm not as strong as you, not brave like you. If you- if you go, I don't think I can carry on. But this way, we can carry on together."

Oikawa flickers so violently Hajime is afraid he's going to lose him right there and then, but then there are tears of ink rolling down Oikawa's cheeks that disappear before they hit the ground. One droplet lands on Hajime's outstretched palm and stays, an ebony pearl that defies everything to remain in this realm. 

Trembling, lights phasing in and out, glaring through the cracks in his skin, Oikawa reaches for Hajime's hand, fingers slipping past the teardrop and into a firm grip. 

Before he can change his mind, Hajime pulls Oikawa into a tight embrace, as though he can hold the shade together like this, as though his arms and the way he envelopes him is sufficient to ground him here and put him back together. 

Gradually, the familiar pulling sensation begins, drenching Hajime's entire body in cold sweat as Oikawa binds into his skin, the cells integrating the parasitical form until Hajime is blurred with Oikawa. 

It feels like being squeezed, his lungs compressed and ribs straining to the point of cracking and he's gasping for air now but it seems like oxygen has deserted him, or maybe he has no blood left in him. He has no idea. All he can feel is the sensation of being displaced and yet, with nowhere to go in a space too small, and the gradual prickling numbness that starts in his fingers but migrates up. 

He struggles, it's a survival instinct at this point, he tries to push back, to undo the way it feels to be crushed and stretched at the same time. 

The moment Oikawa notices it, Hajime perceives a pull back and it feels worse, the strange tugging as though it will yank out his innards if done too hard. So he fights it, he resists the urge to struggle, to let Oikawa go. Instead, he tightens his grip, or at least he thinks he does, for his arms feel like logs not attached to him at all, and tries to hold Oikawa closer than before. 

Slowly, like liquid seeping into his skin, Hajime feels Oikawa fall into him, a heavy ebb that is akin to his entire body being smothered in gentle waves of thick syrup. 

He can't tell if he's still breathing, if the wretched drags of air garner anything into lungs that no longer belong to him alone. It's impossible, but Hajime swears he feels himself expire, feels his body and soul give out, feels his skin being strained until each individual vein feels like a reservoir of pain, green under tanned skin. 

At some point, he loses his grip on consciousness and when he comes to, it's dark, only the flickering of a lilac ember that burns steadily in the shadows. 

The next time his eyes open, the world looks more or less the same, the sun is no longer as high in the sky, nevertheless it's exactly the same scene as it was a while back. 

But there's a drumming that starts out faint and gets louder as it goes, a rhythmic thumping that grows until it fills his ears completely. Hajime's instinct is to run but he can't move, his mind growing more frantic while his eyes inspect his hands and his hands pat his chest and legs down. 

It takes a couple of minutes before he realizes that's just what his heartbeat sounds like, that it's just his frenzied heart beating into overdrive while his body explores itself. 

The sounds of the world slowly filter in for the first time in ten years, the evening chatter of birds returning to the nest is shrill while the gentle movement of the breeze whistles in low tones. His heartbeat gradually fades to background noise as his ears adjust and adjust again. 

"Hajime?" It's his voice and it's his tongue wrapping around those syllables, but it's not him, not anymore. The vocal cords are his, but this sounds like Tooru (for he is Tooru now) in a way he can't shake. 

He's hyperaware and completely helpless about the way his lungs expand and contract, how his fingers stretch and his toes curl. He feels his mouth and cheeks curve in an unfamiliar smile, glittering and brilliant, and then Tooru speaks in Hajime's voice:

"Don't worry, this time, _we_ will be unforgettable."

**Author's Note:**

> Yay we made it! Thank you so much for reading, I had so much fun with my first HQ horror week, I hope you liked it too~ Now please excuse me while I lie down to recuperate. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought or come hmu on [tumblr](https://redroseinsanity.tumblr.com/) !


End file.
